


Your Soul, In Which I Find My Own

by gloriouscacophony (KatrinaKay)



Series: Ineffable Husbands Week 2019 - SFW [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Class Differences, Gardens & Gardening, Georgian Period, Grief/Mourning, Loneliness, M/M, Master & Servant, Roses, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 03:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20576024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatrinaKay/pseuds/gloriouscacophony
Summary: Ineffable Husbands Week - Day 7: Eternity/Destiny/IneffableIn which wealthy estate owner Crowley comes home to his family manor and meets gardener Aziraphale, a radiant kindred spirit who brings joy into his life again. (Georgian era human AU)





	Your Soul, In Which I Find My Own

“Of course now that he’s home from abroad, Master Crowley is the most eligible bachelor in the county, what with twenty thousand pounds plus his annual allowance. Pity he can’t behave more like a gentleman though,” Madame Elbert says in a conspiratorial tone, fluttering her fan at the group of middle-aged women gathered about her.

They watch as the gentleman in question struts around the dance hall, brooding and sulking as though this gathering, full of the creme of the region’s society (that they themselves daresay rivals London’s), is beneath him. He ignores the whispers and giggles of their daughters, decked out in their splendor in pastels that rival the dessert tray, and the glares of the other young men overshadowed by his wealth and mystery.

Since he returned from the continent, it’s been party after ball after gala, as the society mothers throughout England trot out their eligible offspring like prize mares. And so far, not a single one has caught his eye or his attention for more than an instant—or, in the case of some of the finer specimens, an hour or two that would send their mothers into apoplexy if they knew what had occurred during those private moments. Some of his misdeeds have apparently been known, if what he hears the lords and ladies whisper about him is true. And most of it is.

The thought brings a small, wicked smirk to his face as he continues his rounds to avoid any particularly ambitious women thrusting yet another handsome-enough daughter his way tonight.  
  


* * *

  
Crowley hadn’t been back to the estate since his father died, and the place is far too empty now. He has no siblings, no mother, and now no father, all alone in the massive house rattling around from room to room.

The servants greet him with surprise but warmth, and he nods to those he remembers, asking after their families. (He might be a cad, but he’s still a gentleman.) He tries to stay out of their way as they frantically prepare the house for his unexpected arrival. Gradually, the dust cloths draped like shrouds over the marble statues, the furniture, the paintings, are removed; heavy drapes are pulled back to let in early-summer sunshine, and even more servants arrive to cook and dress and wait on him.

He’s written to his friend and gambling associates Sir Hastur Lavista and Lord Ligur Offme, asking them to visit, but the former is on his honeymoon and the latter is too busy to leave the city until later in the year.

In his boredom, he peruses the library, the wine cellar, the stables, looking for something to distract him from the distinct sense of isolation and unease. He eats, sleeps, drinks, and sleeps some more, waiting for someone to break the monotony of the quiet country life.

After too many days trapped inside by great thunderstorms that pelted the windows with rain, Crowley decides to force himself out of bed and into an outfit suitable for outdoor rambling. He waves off the offer of assistance with his coiffure and runs a hand through his short red curls, giving himself a mock scowl in the mirror before making his way down the stairs, through the cavernous entrance hall, and out into the fresh air.

He’s traversed the front lawns, strolling around the fish pond on the gravel of the carriage path, but there isn’t much to see that he can’t see from his carriage, so he decides to visit the one place on the grounds he’s been actively avoiding since he returned home.

His mother’s rose garden had been left to its own devices after his mother died in childbirth, along with Crowley’s brother. After her death, he gardeners instinctively shied away from entering to tend the plants, claiming that her spirit could be seen wandering among the roses at night. (If Crowley’s father had ever heard these superstitions, he had never acknowledged them, too ensconced in his grief at such a loss.)

The entrance to the rose garden never had a gate, but now his path is blocked by a similar obstacle: a wall of thorny brambles and massive, reedy weeds. The thorns shred his supple leather gloves as he tries to force them aside, and he makes little progress until he notices a small, rounded break in the overgrowth just out of reach. Wincing and inspecting his bleeding palms, he examines the opening and sees bright, warm sunlight filtering through the other side, so he crouches his thin frame and shuffles through.

Despite its state of neglect, the sight of the garden brings back memories of his mother, sitting on that bench there and reading poetry to him on spring evenings (_“Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art/Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,/And watching, with eternal lids apart,/Like nature's patient sleepless eremite…”_) or bringing her easel and paints out in the early morning to capture a likeness of a bloom’s dew-fresh petals.

Lost in memories, the snap of a twig and rustles of greenery startles him. Wide-eyed, he seeks the sound of the noise, and the sight before him stuns him to his core.

There, in a beam of leaf-dappled sunlight, is a man. His cheeks are ruddy, and his white-blond curls are a stark contrast to his lightly tanned skin, freckled on his forearms where his sleeves are rolled above the elbow. He’s murmuring something to the rosebush he’s pruning, unaware that he’s being watched as he smiles gently down at the plant and cuts away the ivy and weeds that choke the plant. He’s beautiful, and Crowley can’t look away.

He doesn’t know how long he watches the man, but in an instant or an hour the man finally sees him and jumps, wide-eyed in surprise. “Oh, hello! I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t notice you...Master Crowley?”

“Yes, er, hello there.” He waves awkwardly to the man, sure his blush at being found out can be seen from the house if the heat in his cheeks is anything to go by.

The man makes his way over carefully through the brambles and weeds, and smiles at Crowley, making the edges of his forget-me-not-blue eyes crinkle with delight. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Master Crowley. I’m Aziraphale, the new gardener. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve been tidying up a bit in here, the head gardener said I wouldn’t bother anyone since there aren’t many visitors to this part of the grounds.”

He extends a hand, and Crowley grips it for an instant before wincing, his forgotten scrapes stinging at the contact. “Oh bugger, those stupid thorns—”

“Oh, goodness, are you all right?” Aziraphale grasps Crowley’s wrist and, before he can respond, gently slides the glove off to examine the angry, raised scratches, peering and brushing a finger against one to see if it’s still bleeding.

“It’s nothing, just lost a fight with the hedge—” But the gardener shakes his head, biting a lip in thought and shoving a hand into one of his pockets, digging around for a moment before pulling out a small tin and a roll of clean cotton bandage.

“I almost forgot I had these. Would you allow me to take the liberty of helping tidy these up a bit?” He still hasn’t let go of Crowley, and Crowley still hasn’t reckoned with the frisson of heat the contact on the delicate skin of his wrist is causing. “Really, it’s no trouble.”

Crowley opens his mouth to argue, to make an excuse and flee back to the house to clean and dress his palms, but he shuts it quickly as his brain catches up and realizes that he’d rather have the gorgeous gardener in close proximity a little longer. “That would be...thank you.”

Aziraphale finally drops his wrist to lead him over to a bench that’s mostly clear of debris. They sit side by side, and Crowley watches as the gardener tears off a bit of cloth to dab at the cuts before opening the small tin, revealing a yellow-green salve that stings a bit as he applies it to Crowley’s hand.

“Sorry, sorry, I know it hurts a bit!” Aziraphale apologizes, but Crowley just shakes his head and watches him finish. He can’t remember the last time touched him with this much care, and the rush of emotion at such contact (even from a stranger, albeit a stunningly beautiful one) makes him giddy.

“D’you always have a whole kit of supplies with you?” he asks. Honestly, he has no idea what kind of tools or supplies one might need as a gardener on a large estate—some kind of shears and shovels and things?

“Oh yes, you never know what you’ll need during a day’s work. I’ve cut my own hands enough times on a stubborn log or shrub to always carry a bandage or two with me. There, now the other one,” Aziraphale says, putting out his hand for Crowley’s. He takes his time with the wounds on this palm as well, securing the end of the bandage with a tight knot. “Would you like to put your gloves back on? They’re a bit, well, shredded, but it might help keep the bandages in place.”

“Oh, er, yes, I suppose I should. Wouldn’t want the housekeepers to think I was trying to off myself again and missed or anything,” he quips.

Aziraphale frowns as he helps Crowley with his gloves. “Pardon me for saying so, but that great house must be quite lonely. I’m terribly sorry about your father’s passing.”

Normally, Crowley would roll his eyes at such sentiment, but the gardener’s earnestness is hard to ignore. “...Thank you. It’s...taking some getting used to.” He stands suddenly, making a show of adjusting his gloves and flexing his hands to test the bandages. “Well, I’d best leave you to your work.”

“It was lovely to meet you, Master Crowley. I do hope you’ll let me know if there’s anything you need, anything at all.”

Crowley nods, touches his hat in farewell, and makes his way back to the small opening. But when he glances back to see the gardener tidying up his supplies, he has a sudden, crazy idea: “Perhaps you could bring some flowers to the house tomorrow, brighten things up a bit? I’ll trust you to pick the right ones, I don’t know much about plants.”

The gardener beams at him, and his heart flutters again at the sight. “Of course, Master Crowley. Tomorrow, then.”  
  


* * *

  
The next day, Aziraphale brings him a massive bouquet of delicate pink peonies. The day after, he delivers fresh lavender with lambs ear. The day after that, roses. Each day, he brings Crowley a new assortment from the estate’s gardens and the countryside surrounding them, telling Crowley stories of the plants and the other estate workers and his life. His candor and enthusiasm are infinitely refreshing to Crowley after years of gossip and conniving and politics.

While he works in the garden, Crowley lounges on the bench and they continue their conversations. He’s surprised to learn that the gardener is an avid reader, when he can find books and the time to read them, and gives Aziraphale to borrow any book in his collection, since they’re only sitting gathering dust. The gardener politely declines until the day Crowley steers him into the library and shuts the door behind him. When he returns, Aziraphale has his nose stuck in one book of poetry and a stack of other volumes piled next to him. He thanks Crowley until the man is blushing furiously and practically runs away to hide in his room until his heart slows to its normal rhythm.

More than his boring social visits to neighboring estates and the ever-irksome dances and balls, Crowley finds himself looking forward to his visits with Aziraphale. Beyond his handsome face, there’s a lively mind and an eternally kind soul with more patience and love than Crowley has ever encountered.

And then, one night as he drifts off to sleep, thinking of their latest conversation on_ The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius_, he realizes that for the first time in a long time, his small, embittered heart doesn’t ache quite so much. For the first time in a very long time, he’s _ happy_...and it’s because of Aziraphale.  
  


* * *

  
One evening, as the sky turns from blue to gold to indigo in the sky, they sit in the garden, drinking wine that Crowley had nicked from the kitchen and watching the fireflies begin to emerge and dot the shadows around them.

“Can I ask you something?” Crowley blurts out, before he can stop himself.

“Of course, Master Crowley. What is it?”

“How are you so...I dunno.” He waves a hand in Aziraphale’s direction in a vague gesture. “I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

“I’m just a gardener,” Aziraphale replies, avoiding Crowley’s eyes until he grips the gardener’s round chin in his hand and gently tilts his face towards him.

“You’re not _ just _a gardener. You’re—you.”

“I’m afraid I don’t—I mean, that is,” the gardener stutters, leaning into the touch ever so slightly as a delicate flush appears on his freckled cheeks that’s strong enough for Crowley to see in the fading light.

And because he’s used to getting what he wants, because he’s used to being treated well because of his money, but he's not used to _this_, Crowley leans in until his mouth is only a breath away from the gardener’s before he stops and asks quietly, “Can I kiss you?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale inhales, eyes gazing at Crowley’s mouth with desperate hunger. “Please.”

Crowley doesn’t think about the propriety, about his reputation, about his duty, or any of that rubbish. He pulls Aziraphale close and kisses him deep and firm and slow, and for the first time in a very long time, he feels love.

**Author's Note:**

> Vaguely inspired by Pride & Prejudice and The Secret Garden. I wanted to end the week of SFW prompts with something sweet.
> 
> Poem is "Bright Star, Would I Were Steadfast as Thou Art" by John Keats


End file.
